At three o'clock in the morning, the air is very cold.
There are few pedestrians on the road, but my heart is warm.
Not afraid at all, I shook the speed wheel.
Go to Jokhang Temple and start my day.
I don't know if the Buddha is awake, but he may not have slept at all.
Facing this shiny slate, I seem to
I can still feel the residual body temperature, facing east.
I knocked three times seriously, and then patted the dust on my body.
Like watch hands, around Jokhang Temple.
Rotate in Barkhor Street.
Round and round, more and more people.
Old friends are here, and their loyal dogs.
We walked and talked, just like a boat.
In the stream of people, in the chanting.
In the mulberry smoke, in the wind—
Ganden, a piece of pure land.
I look up at ganden from the clouds.
The rugged mountain road is like the road to happiness.
Although it is difficult, hope is ahead.
The car motor is as breathless as I am.
An elephant runs with its national beliefs on its back.
The prosperity dispersed, and silence was restored here.
The dog crawled lazily on the ground, and the clouds surrounded Jinding, unwilling to leave.
Several monks were whispering in the sun.
No one knows my arrival.
I lit a butter lamp and the flame spread.
Then he made a standard ceremony to the Buddha devoutly.
The prayer wheel creaked and twisted, and the prayer flags danced wildly in the wind.
Standing in the highest place, snow-capped mountains, rivers, villages and pedestrians.
And the new highway, I can't see it.
Pain and sadness, in fact, the Buddha is also high above.
Watching us come and go indifferently.
Zhe mussel, snow-white rice pile
Seen from a distance, the mountain looks like a chair.
And you are the rice pile in its arms.
The empty Buddha booth is watching alone.
Waiting for the arrival of the next snow festival.
In its heart, it likes scenes admired by thousands of people.
Hidden white conch.
The secret of the universe and the earth lies with the Buddha.
Only accept worship and remain silent.
Darkness is like waves in the sea.
Touching a child who has forgotten his hometown.
Actually, it doesn't matter whether you come or not, because
It is in my heart, as long as I think of it.
I'll hang up countless wind horses
Repeatedly reciting the six-character mantra can create happiness.
Hope piled up in Lhasa.
Salad, the sound of quarrelling.
Legend has it that it rained hail that day.
A temple stands in the north of Lhasa.
History rolls forward, resplendent dome.
But like me, addicted to
In the land where wild roses bloomed 500 years ago.
A frank communication, a fierce collision.
A confrontation in diamond cut diamond and a meeting full of joy.
Clever questions, clever answers.
In hot pursuit, answer like a stream.
The more you argue, the clearer it becomes. Even if you lose, you won't lose your way.
I have been waiting for this peak moment.
From youth to old age, Ge Sang blooms and bears fruit, and withers and withers.
He never showed up. He had no rivals.
This is an empty stage, and I will always
Only the audience and the audience.
Dangxiong, I am running on the grassland.
Your vastness is only suitable for running.
The train is running and the car is running.
Horses are running, and cattle and sheep are running.
Snowflakes are flying, and so is the spring breeze.
Zhuo Ma and I are running.
We are running in your long and anxious waiting for spring.
We run in the endless green of your summer.
We are running in your brilliant harvest in autumn.
We run in the vastness of your winter.
We run in your silent cycle.
We rushed to the mysterious and sacred Potala Palace.
We rushed to the vast and magnificent Namco.
We rushed to the majestic Nyainqentanglha.
We ran to the warm and romantic tent.
We ran to a beautiful and happy dream.
The road to Potala
Potala is a lighthouse, an immortal lighthouse.
A beacon of hope in the dark
This is a road full of dreams.
There are twists and turns, and no one can stop me from moving forward.
Because the light is not far away.
Potala is a kind of sustenance, a warm sustenance.
The final sustenance, confusion.
This is a path full of fragrance.
Be quiet, although I can't arrive day and night.
But I have set foot in The Way.
Potala is near and far.
Close enough for me to touch his breath.
So far away that he can't hear my heartbroken call.
Potala is a static Buddha, and I am a spiritual boy.
Walk this last section of the road with a lifetime of hope.
Chen Yuejun, 65438-0979, from Ruicheng, Shanxi, is a member of Chinese Writers Association. He has published works in Poetry magazine, Flying, Poetry Monthly and other newspapers, and has written poems such as Flying Dreams, Touching Heaven with Your Heart, and Touching Maggie Amy's Smile.